Chapter 4

The taxi drew up before an imposing white building with solid glass doors set beneath modern aluminum block lettering. A neat fern-filled garden at one corner broke the stern austerity of its simple lines. Even against the clean beauty of the other Brazilian architecture about it, the edifice announced dignity and a lofty disregard for cost. It was the American Embassy, and he paid the taxi and went inside. The cool dusk of the high-vaulted entrance calmed the strange restlessness that had overcome him in the taxi, and he approached the desk with a return to normality.

The mention of Mr. Murray’s name brought neither accusing glances nor shocked surprise; he was directed quite routinely to a room on the eighth floor. Let it go quickly, he prayed; let him give me my passport and show me the door. Let him be too disgusted with my stupidity even to repeat his form lecture. He paused. Let him even give me the lecture, be thought, just so long as he also gives me my passport.

The elevator swallowed him soundlessly and deposited him with no sensation of motion in a corridor lined with black and white marble. At the far end he saw the number he wanted, but the anteroom was empty and he sat down to wait for someone to appear, too impressed by the massive inner door and heavy silence to think of knocking. Magazines were neatly stacked on a small table beside his chair, and he was considering whether or not to disturb their precise geometry when the door swung open, and he looked up to find a medium-sized, nondescript man studying him in calm appraisal.

“Mr. Busch?”

“Yes.” He pried himself out of the deep chair, his prayers repeating themselves in his mind. “Are you Mr. Murray?”

The nondescript man shook his head slowly, a faint touch of wonderment in his manner. “You had better come in, I think. My name is Wilson, and it appears that it is time we all had a talk. Please come in.”

He passed ahead of Wilson, sinking deep into the lush carpet, confused by the luxury of the room, but also made a bit alert. The large office desk set beneath the draped windows was dwarfed by the size of the office, but the profusion of chairs and couches scattered about in studied deference to hominess somehow balanced the room. He was vaguely aware of an array of pictures on the richly paneled walls, but he did not bring himself to look at them. The quiet hum of an air conditioner was the only sound, and he was suddenly conscious of the coolness. He flattered himself that he was actually not very surprised to see Captain Da Silva sitting in one corner, negligently swinging one leg over the other, and smiling gently.

“I suppose,” he said carefully, almost cautiously, standing very still, feeling the cold touch of panic returning, “that you couldn’t be Mr. Murray?”

“Why, no,” Da Silva said pleasantly. “I am Captain José Da Silva. At your service. I thought we had gotten that all clear this morning.”

“But I had a telephone call… at the information desk they said…”

“Exactly what they were told to say,” Mr. Wilson finished smoothly.

He suddenly felt weary again, conscious of the ridiculous figure he made, standing rigid and short and fat in the center of the room, apparently to be the continuing butt of Captain Da Silva’s sardonic humor. He hated to satisfy the requirements for his baiting; he knew he should march out of the room coldly angry, but the words were out before he could stop them, forced from the depths of his disappointment. “Then there is no Mr. Murray? And I do not get my passport?”

Da Silva laughed. “Sit down, Mr.… ah, Mr. Busch. Of course you get your passport. And of course there is a Mr. Murray, and of course he is the assistant consul here.” He considered the swinging toe of his polished boot, as if suddenly pleased to be its owner. When he looked up his smile was a bit rueful, as if he had been unfairly accused of a breach of manners. “My dear fellow, we would certainly not slip up on a thing like that, particularly in a telephone conversation with the Mirabelle Hotel. After all, we could scarcely use Mr. Wilson’s name, because very few people know that he is attached to this eminent office. And Mr. Wilson, I gather, prefers it just that way. And of course we couldn’t use my name, since I am a visitor here like yourself.” He shrugged as if to say. What could we do? “It may be true that Mr. Murray has had his name taken in vain, at least in the sense that he has no idea your passport was taken away, nor that it is being returned. But then, this is probably the only service to which Mr. Murray has been put in his two years in Brazi!.” He rolled his eyes drolly toward a shelf that contained an even row of chromed cups. “Other, possibly, than earning the Embassy several cups in bridge, and advancing the interests of your government in the field of golf.”

Mr. Wilson smiled faintly. “After all, Zé,” he said, “you are in the American Embassy. A bit of respect for the residents might be in order.”

“It is enough to respect an idea or an ideal,” Da Silva returned, still smiling idly, although a certain tone of seriousness had entered his voice. “Sometimes it is not good to study the manifestations too closely, for all too often they have a tendency to assume the form of your Mr. Murray.” He looked up in friendly fashion at the short figure still standing tense in the middle of the room, listening in suspicious bewilderment to this exchange. “You do not know Mr. Murray, I assume, Mr. Busch. He was not told because it was felt that he would not understand. Mr. Murray, my friend, is the type who, even if he understood, would not understand. However, let us forget Mr. Murray. Let us concentrate on you, Mr. Busch. Tell me, 2657782—how did you ever get involved in a complicated business like this?”

The shock was terrible. He had listened to the soporific voice, waiting for a blow, but not this! He felt his heart swell and then fade to nothing, leaving only the sharp stabbing pain. The rush of blood from his head canted it to one side, giving him an idiot look; the muscles of his legs cramped, pulling him to the floor, jerking them up against his stomach in an almost fetal position. No! No, no! Not after the years of planning, not after the suffering, the antagonisms, the friendlessness! Not after the sun on the bay, and the promise of the mountains; not after the warm headiness of the breeze! No! He felt hands lifting him, the dribble of water against his stiffened tongue, a pillow being pushed against his neck.

“My God, Zé! What in hell did you say?”

But Da Silva was too busy with the man on the couch to answer. For the first time in their long acquaintance, Wilson saw the tall man shocked out of his usual air of detachment; he was desperately attempting to resuscitate the tortured figure twisting on the couch.

“Look! Please! My God, I’m with you, I’m on your side, don’t you understand? I was only talking, it’s my way, do you understand? Can you hear me? I’m here to help you, can’t you see that? Try to understand what I’m saying; I’m here to help you. Wilson, call a doctor—no, we can’t! Listen to me, you are in the American Embassy in Rio de Janeiro, you are perfectly safe, you are with friends. Friends, do you hear? Don’t you understand? Wilson, do something! Why the devil did they have to pick a two-hundred-year-old with a bad heart! Meu Deus, me salve de minha bôca! Take it easy, relax, calm down; you’re all right. We are friends!”

The trembling began to slowly subside, more in response to time than to the words of the frantic man working over him, although the sense of those words registered faintly. The fight to hold onto the vague shadows of the finite room about him, and not to sink into the dark horror of unconsciousness slowly sharpened his will to recover. Treat it as only a more severe presentation of the dream, he thought; and even as a hidden corner of his brain clamped onto the thought, his recovery began. At the moment, at least, this man over him was trying to help. Had it been the others, the enemy, they would have merely waited for sufficient recovery to continue the torture. And besides, he knows. What nobody knows or could know, he knows!

Also, they wouldn’t be here in the American Embassy, nor would they have waited so long, nor kept so quiet, nor allowed him to reach this point. This man is telling the truth, his brain whispered, and I am a fool. He is here to help me, he is the one. I am truly a fool!

He tried to roll to an erect position and felt hands aiding him. His fingers, fumbling for his pocket, brought immediate response from Da Silva. He felt the pillbox being removed, the pill being slipped into his mouth. Wilson held a glass of water to his trembling lips, but he waved it away, sucking fiercely on the pill beneath his tongue. The fixed solidity of the objects about him served as an anchor of reality in the nightmare; the placid hum of the air conditioner seemed to demonstrate the civilized nature of his surroundings. The dizziness and pain slowly passed.

“My God!” Da Silva said wonderingly, almost to himself. “He really does have a bad heart!”

“I’m sorry,” the small man said haltingly, catching his breath, aware that the shock he had suffered was much more severe than any in the past, secretly surprised at his own rapid recovery. “I’m truly sorry, but I thought…” He looked at them blankly, shrugged, began again. “It was the shock. You see, even in New York, our own people… They knew about the camp, of course, but nobody knew the number….”

Da Silva straightened, heaving a massive sigh of relief. His lean, athletic figure stretched, easing the tension of his body; his dark expressive eyes were honest and serious.

“I am on your side, you know,” he said quietly, his voice attempting to convince and soothe at the same time. “You would do me a very great favor by accepting my word for it, because I cannot stand many scenes like this if we are going to work together. I have always prided myself on my complete lack of fear, my mustache, and my family name, but you frightened me as I have never been frightened before!” A twinkle came into the steady eyes. “Please do not do it again, or I may begin losing faith in the other two!”

The man on the couch attempted a weak smile. “I haven’t been too well lately,” he said haltingly, confidingly, “and the trip was very tiring. But I insisted on going through with it. The others weren’t too sure, but I insisted. After all, three years is a long time, and we had done a lot of work…. And it was too late to try to develop a new man, a…” He paused, searching for a name. “A Fritz Mueller, let us say, or a Karl Schmidt…” His voice trailed off.

Da Silva nodded sympathetically, apparently understanding this ambiguous statement. Wilson had retired to the desk and was watching the scene with half-closed eyes, his face as impassive as ever. The old man sighed. “I still don’t understand about the number….”

“Yes.” Da Silva lit a cigarette, and he paused after tossing the dead match into an ash tray. “The number. Yes. Well, when I decided to work with you, I made it my business to find out everything about you. As well as about many of your friends. And, naturally, as much about our enemies as possible, although I have a fair file on them as it is. The number… well, I have the contacts, I have the patience, and if you will, I also have the curiosity.”

“You found out everything about me?” The old man’s voice was curious, and also tinged with wistfulness.

“Just about everything, I think.” He seated himself beside the older man, his hand reaching out and almost touching the other’s knee, as if in sympathy. “You, my friend, are Ari Schoenberg, age sixty-one, number 2657782, released from the Buchenwald concentration camp in April of 1945 by the American Army.” He inhaled deeply and watched the curls of smoke swirl sinuously toward the air conditioner.

“You spent three months in an American Army hospital outside of Paris. You spent another four months in a camp outside of Paris while you attempted to locate your family, or the remnants, through the Refugee Committee. My information regarding this particular period is a trifle vague, but apparently you found enough of them to manage entrance into the United States about the end of 1945.”

The old man stirred. “Not relatives,” he said, as if to himself. “Friends. Or maybe a better word is ‘contacts.”’

“Friends, then. Or contacts. Let me see, what else?” The dark head leaned back, reading the dossier printed in his memory. “Yes. In the United States, you disappeared for some years.” There was a slight tone of frustration in his voice as if vaguely ashamed of this hole in the dossier. “We do know that an Ari Schoenberg took out his final citizenship papers in the city of Denver, in the State of Colorado, in 1953….” He looked at the old man questioningly.

“Yes,” said the other.

There was a sigh, almost of pleasure, at this confirmation. “Then, about three years ago, Ari Schoenberg disappeared. In his place, or rather not in his place, appeared a certain Hans Busch. In the name of Hans Busch you have authored anti-Semitic pamphlets and statements. In the name of Hans Busch you have been accused by the newspapers of being active in the reorganization of Nazi activities in the United States, and financing, if not actually participating in, the burning of synagogues and the wave of swastika paintings that we are all familiar with..” He eyed the other man sideways, a faint smile creasing his face. “But the interesting thing is that nobody has ever seen this famous Hans Busch. He is only known by name….” He seemed to be awaiting a comment, but the old man sat listening, his hands locked between his legs. “We also know that in the name of Hans Busch you became the owner of the two trading companies which you are now accused of robbing.” The thin, tanned head suddenly came down. “By the way, off the record—and just to satisfy this devilish curiosity of mine—how did you ever manage to be accused of embezzling from yourself?”

The old man smiled, an almost elfin grimace that transformed the pale face. “I took in a partner, a wonderful bookkeeper. Our group have their talents, you know, even if keeping secrets does not seem to be one of them. Any more on that list in your head?”

Da Silva laughed. With the laugh, everyone seemed to relax, recognizing that the crisis was over. “Not too much. Your group has been after Interpol to pay more attention to the rounding up of suspected Nazis here in Brazil, because you felt the main attempt at a rebirth was not in Germany, or in the United States, but here in this country.” He paused, frowning, snuffing out his cigarette. “I agree with you on that, by the way. I have certain information that makes me certain of it; as a matter of fact, that is how I became involved in this. At any rate, Interpol turned you down. Sympathetically, sadly, remorsefully; but definitely. Not their problem, no proof, other organizations more proper for the apprehension of—and so forth, and so forth. Am I right?”

“You are quite right.” Ari was thinking now; the shock had passed and his brain was free to study this development. The pain in his chest had dulled and his mind was clear. He studied the man before him carefully. “You are frighteningly right. If you could gather all of the facts that I have worked so hard to hide these past three years, what is to prevent the others from gathering them just as easily?”

Da Silva shook his head slowly. “To begin with, it was not easy,” he said. “It wars not easy at all. But that is not the point. Why should they doubt you? What motive would they have? I am with Interpol, and I am familiar with all of the correspondence. When it was officially decided to refuse help to your group, I asked for leave of absence to work with you as an individual, because I am sure you and your group are right. Of course I investigated. But why should they?”

“Why shouldn’t they?”

“No, no! Why should they? My dear Ari, the Nazi group here are more than anxious to believe that a certain Mr. Hans Busch, known for his sympathy to their great cause, is loose in Brazil with two million dollars. Two million dollars, I might point out, which he cannot take home again without embarrassing questions being raised. They will feel sure that they can prevail upon him to share the wealth, either through the force of their common convictions, or through any other means they feel necessary to use. Why should they doubt Mr. Busch? They know who he is; among other things, he is the answer to their constant prayers. Who questions the existence of Santa Claus on Christmas Eve? In July, possibly, but on Christmas Eve?”

He paused and looked at Ari. “No,” be went on slowly, “they will not check on Mr. Busch as a person; his cover is safe. However, they will most certainly check in great detail on his two million dollars, you may be sure of that! Although I hope that our meeting this morning helped to convince them on that score.”

“Our meeting this morning?” Ari sat up slowly, many things clarifying. “Then that was why, at the airport, this morning…?” “That was why indeed.” Da Silva smiled delightedly, his eyes twinkling, his thumb unconsciously stroking his mustache. “I hope you fully appreciate the artistry you witnessed this morning. Yes, the stage lost a great actor when I turned to police work!” His smile faded as he recalled their previous encounter. “Did you pay any particular attention to the customs official who brought you in and searched you? You should have. He doesn’t know it, but he is an old friend of mine, that miseravel! His name is Gunther, born in Santa Catarina in the South. His father was a schoolteacher there, very pro-Hitler, and I have quite a file on the entire family! Personally, I doubt if the son knows what a Nazi is, but there is no doubt that he is one of their little boys!”

He shrugged and smiled. “Yes, that impromptu scene was played all for his benefit. My God! The way he searched you! You could have been carrying a twenty-eight-inch television set under your coat and he would have managed to overlook it! By now you may be sure that the story of Mr. Busch and his two million dollars is going through channels!”

“But we spoke in English,” Ari objected. “Does he speak—?”

Da Silva snorted. Don’t worry about that one! He knew what we were speaking about! Ten seconds after he had you in a taxi, I would bet anything he was on the telephone. Mr. Busch and his millions will bring sweet dreams to many foolish people tonight!”

Silence fell while Ari considered this information. His glance traveled from the musing expression on Da Silva’s face to the quiet watchfulness of the nondescript man. He cleared his throat diffidently. “And Mr. Wilson?”

Da Silva shrugged elaborately. “Mr. Wilson? Mr. Wilson is assigned by Interpol to the American Embassy here, where, among his other activities—or nonactivities—he serves as security officer as well. Mr. Wilson is a very good friend of mine for many years. We have gotten into our share of trouble together in the past, and probably will again in the future, but I’m afraid not on this case. On this case, his interest simply seems to be seeing that you do not embarrass the American government. He will be of absolutely no help, but on the other hand, knowing him, I should say that he also will not hinder too much.”

The nondescript man smiled at this. “Now, one moment, Zé…”

“I know.” Da Silva raised one hand languidly. “I know. I understand your position perfectly, as well as the position of your government. You put Nazis in the same category as griffins and unicorns. Once a terrible threat, but fortunately no longer existent.”

Wilson’s smile faded. He studied them both for several seconds, framing his reply. “Mr. Schoenberg holds an American passport issued in a name other than his own.” He lifted his hand, forestalling Da Silva’s protest. “I know that by itself this is neither too serious nor too unusual. But we have to remember, Zé, that Mr. Schoenberg is not in Brazil for pleasure. Our government certainly does not intend to have a duplication of the Eichmann mess if it can help it. Or if we can prevent it.” He thought a moment, looking at Da Silva calmly. “By not hindering you, as you put it, I am actually helping you considerably, and doing it more as a favor to you, Zé, than for any other reason. After all, we are also a part of Interpol, and there is a proper organization for handling war criminals.”

And for peace criminals? An thought wearily. For the war criminals of the future? Nobody wants to see a duplication of the Eichmann mess, but which Eichmann mess? Argentina? Or Poland: Auschwitz, Maidanek, Treblinka? They say: Remember that the war is long over, let the dead bury the dead, let bygones be bygones. They say: Forget Buchenwald and Dachau and Gneisenau; remember that the Düsseldorf bourse is all new veined marble trimmed in bright chrome, and the Königsallee all crystal and silver between the gay awnings and the colorful canal; and where will you find funnier comedy acts in all Europe? They say: Forget Belsen and Natzweiler; remember the autobahns rushing with sturdy Volkswagens and majestic Mercedeses, happy tours earned by earnest hard-working people, guided by pleasant police in bright new uniforms. They say: Forget Ravensbruch….

If we all sweep our memories under the rug of history, will they really disappear? We hid for two thousand years, he thought, but they always found us. Now they want us to hide again. It’s a stupid game.

“I appreciate what Mr. Wilson is doing,” he said wearily, forcing his thoughts back to the comfortable room. “I assure you both that I am not here to kidnap anyone. I have no desire or intention of embarrassing either the American or the Brazilian government. I am here quite alone, as Captain Da Silva must know. I am here only to try and get some proof that the Nazis are building a new organization, and that the center of that organization is here in Brazi!.”

He looked at them both coldly, the strength of his purpose flowing into his body and his voice. “This new wave of anti-Semitism is no accident. It is organized and directed. From here, we believe. I am here to try to get names, figures, facts. I am here to try and get enough ammunition to interest some government, or some agency. Some group other than our own.”

He clasped his hands tightly. “In the three years that Mr. Hans Busch has existed, there have been letters; many of them, but mostly from cranks. I heard vaguely of Brazil, always Brazil, but nobody from Brazil ever contacted me directly. So we dreamed up this scheme. We reasoned that a sum of two million dollars in the hands of a Nazi sympathizer in Brazil illegally would be tempting enough to eventually lead to the top people here.” He stared at the two silent men who were watching him. “You may think: that I am imagining all this; that any wave of anti-Semitism that exists is nothing compared to what existed a short time ago. But this is not true; it is here, waiting for an impetus to break loose.” He shrugged. “The impetus may be money. If it is, that’s why I’m here.” He looked at Da Silva questioningly. “I believe that Captain Da Silva must have known this.”

The tall man rose and wandered to the windows overlooking the Avenida Wilson. He pulled aside the heavy drapes and stared in silence at the buglike cars passing below, and the blue bay beyond. “Yes,” he said finally, turning back to the darkening room. “I knew it. It is not a bad idea. It may work.” He leaned on the back of a chair, frowning. “I have always been puzzled that they never contacted you seriously in the States. After all, you had a reputation from your pamphlets. But I imagine they had no idea that your trading companies were so lucrative.” He shook his head. “I even thought at one time that possibly they knew who you really were.”

Ari raised his eyebrows. “When you called me by that number,” he said, “I thought you were one of them, and that you were playing with me.”

“My confounded sense of the dramatic,” Da Silva said, flashing a swift smile that immediately faded. “You’ll have to forgive me for that. No; I’m convinced they don’t know who you are. They are an odd organization, that’s all. In fact, at times it seems they aren’t organized at all, but just splash signs on walls, or set their bombs, out of blind hatred. I shouldn’t imagine they are overwealthy, so if anything has a chance of bringing them out in the open, you and your illegal millions ought to do it.” He sighed. “Plus, of course, the fact that they will have to get me out of the picture. Between one thing and another, we may be able to piece something together that makes sense.”

“Get you out of me picture?” Wilson asked.

“Certainly. After all, I promised—or threatened, if you will—to keep Mr. Hans Busch under very close surveillance. You can scarcely expect them to lead him by the hand up to the head man if they think I may be about three feet behind with a minicamera.” He smiled. “No; besides courting our friend Ari here, they are going to have to face the problem of what to do about Da Silva, nosy scourge of evildoers. The combination of problems may well confuse the little men, and we shall try to be there to pick up the pieces.” He paused and took out a cigarette, but instead of lighting it he studied it absently, his mind elsewhere.

“Just one thing puzzles me.” He turned to the small figure hunched on the couch. “Tell me something,” he said gently, his eyes warm with compassion. “How did a person like you ever get involved in a cloak-and-dagger deal like this?”

Ari stared at his clasped hands, as if the answer lay imprisoned between the veined trembling fingers. “How?” He looked up at the gaunt form above him. “I am a Jew,” he said simply. “I am also German; I have the language. I am also completely alone and unknown. I am old now, and fat, and comical, maybe; but in 1931 was already on my way to becoming one of the leading criminal lawyers of Germany, only thirty-one years old. I had a great career, they said.” He tried to find the memory amusing, but his eyes were flat as he looked at the other two. “I was not always old, you know. Or comical-looking. Or fat. Especially I was not always fat….” The dull eyes turned inward, dark and unfathomable.

“What should I do, stay home and play with my grandchildren?” He looked at them without seeing them. “That was in 1931. We were a large family, a happy family. I had my wife, two sons, my father, two uncles on his side—his brothers, you know. I had an aunt and an uncle on my mother’s side, plus I don’t know how many cousins. How many is that? I don’t know…. Anyway; three dead in the streets…” He was staring at the past, alone. “No. was not always fat. For years I couldn’t eat enough. I ate everything; everything…. But I could work, I was strong. I was little but I was strong; I could work. Six years. Six years in the Zwangsarbeitslager! But I was strong, or I’d have gone up the chimney long ago….” His eyes slowly cleared, returning to the room from the haze of the past; he looked at Da Silva almost blindly. “You think you know my dossier? Someday I will tell you…”

He fought the bitterness and won, sighing and rubbing his face. “Well, anyway, I am involved. We spent the last three years and a good deal of money developing this Mr. Hans Busch. He is quite real to many people, at least by name. Only his face is unknown; that was necessary. Maybe it is all for nothing, I don’t know. But we did… This Mr. Busch is a Nazi through and through, and if he had not escaped to Brazil when he did, he might very well have been deported to Germany for his sins….”

He paused and stared grimly at the other two. “And you?” he asked, directing his question to Da Silva. “How did you ever get involved in a cloak-and-dagger affair like this? You are not a Jew.”

Da Silva stared down at the hunched, bitter man on the couch. “I could answer as you answered,” he said quietly. “I could simply say, ‘I am a Brazilian.’ But it wouldn’t make sense to anyone except another Brazilian. My dear friend Ari, you don’t know Brazil, but when you do you will know why I am involved.” He became aware of the unlit cigarette in his hand and flung it into the wastebasket, seating himself at Ari’s side in almost the same motion.

“Let me tell you something about Brazilians,” he said. “We have never been in concentration camps, and we have never put others in them. And with God’s help, we never will.” He paused, selecting his words with care. “We Brazilians are foolish, playful, happy, improvident, reckless, gay; what you will. But we are not intolerant.” He turned his head to me silent listening man beside him, suddenly feeling strongly the need to be understood. “You see, most of us can’t afford to be. My family has been here in Brazil for over two hundred years. My first ancestor who came here, came from Portugal, and went into the interior. Our family started there. It was a long time until these first settlers began bringing their women with them from home. So how much Indian blood do I have? How much Negro, or Dutch? I may be part Jewish for all I know. I haven’t the faintest idea!

“Today my family is a known family in Brazil; if you will pardon my lack of modesty, we are a very well-known. family, a great family. But can those of us who have the honor to belong to this great family be anti-Indian, for example? Or anti-Negro? Or anti-Dutch?” He laughed shortly. “We Brazilians are in no position to be anti-anyone! We might very well be cutting our own throats! Do you understand what I am trying to say?”

Ari looked up at him wonderingly. “I think I understand.”

“You will understand better when you have been here longer.” Da Silva rose, smiling down on the other in compassion. A twinkle appeared in his eyes. “Though I confess,” he added slowly, “that my sister would die before she admitted anything but the purest of Portuguese blood in her veins. But even she would never be able to understand discrimination against anyone for race, or color, or religion.” He sighed deeply, and changed the subject with that rapidity that never ceased to confuse even his most intimate colleagues. “Well,” he said, “that’s that! Now let us see where we stand. An, you return to your hotel. It should not be too long before they begin falling over your feet. And I shall be Big Brother, but not to such a degree as to frighten the little men away. We shall see what we shall see!”

“And how will we be able to contact one another?”

Da Silva frowned. “No confidential phone calls from the Mirabelle, my friend Ari! You were put there because an unusual number of their guests seem to come from either Santa Catarina or Rio Grande do Sul. And because if you ask for whiskey in German, you always seem to get the legitimate stuff.” He smiled broadly. “I suppose, in the best tradition of cloak-and-dagger, we should have a password.

Something dramatic and unintelligible, like the name Wilson.”

Ari got to his feet, smiling, getting into the mood of the game. “Why not the name Murray?”

Da Silva grinned. “Wonderful! It would be the perfect example that they also serve who only sit and do nothing. However, much as I should like to give Mr. Murray two opportunities in his life to be useful, I’m afraid I shall have to let this one slide.” He frowned in sudden seriousness. “I think the best idea would be for me to bring you in for questioning every now and then. I won’t be able to do it very often, but I hope that we won’t have to.”

He walked Ari to the door, his hand on the shorter man’s shoulder in a gesture of intimacy. “Well,” he said, “that’s that, then. Good luck.”

Ari paused, his hand on the knob. “And my passport?”

Da Silva laughed. He took the document from his pocket and passed it over with a slight bow. “All in perfect order, Mr. Busch. Goodbye and good luck.”

“Thank you,” Ari said, his fingers tightening on the knob, reluctant to leave the warm friendliness of the room. He turned to the silent nondescript man seated at the enormous desk. “Goodbye, Mr. Wilson.”

“Before you leave, Mr. Schoenberg,” said the quiet man, twisting a pencil in his fingers, “I wonder if I might ask you a few questions.” He raised a hand hurriedly. “Nothing official. Simply out of curiosity.”

“Certainly,” Ari said, puzzled. He stepped back from the door.

The nondescript man played with the pencil in his hand as he spoke. Exactly what was the reason for that briefcase chained to your wrist, Mr. Schoenberg? You might have known it was bound to arouse suspicion.”

“But it was meant to,” Ari said. “Not suspicion, exactly, but curiosity. I wanted them to remember me and my briefcase, but only, of course, after I had cleared customs and gone to the hotel. When they read about the embezzlement, I wanted everyone to remember the man with the briefcase chained to his wrist.” He almost sounded apologetic. “The news release was not supposed to be made until this afternoon; somebody slipped up.”

“When I heard about it,” Da Silva said, “I had to work fast I thought it odd that you would want to be searched, and that is the only conclusion I could come to at first when the release came. But when I saw you…” He laughed.

“Another question, Mr. Schoenberg,” the quiet man continued, almost as if nobody had spoken. “When Zé’s friend Mr. Gunther searched you, were you wearing a money belt? Or anything under your clothes that might have served to hold money?”

He was puzzled. “A money belt? No.”

“And one more question, possibly a foolish one. Was there ever two million dollars? Was there ever, in fact, any money at all?”

Da Silva laughed. “Wilson is a fan of the late Mr. Belasco,” he said to Ari. “He seems to feel, and I am forced to agree, that an actual two million dollars would have added a nice touch of reality to the situation.”

“No,” Ari said, wondering where the questioning was leading. “No, there was never any money at all.”

“Then where is it?” Wilson asked.

“Where is what?” Da Silva said, looking at his friend with astonishment. “Where is money that never existed?”

“Exactly.” Wilson laid the pencil down carefully. “Look, Zé; I don’t know how intelligent your friend Mr. Gunther is, but it would be pretty hard for a customs guard to search a man and overlook two million dollars. It makes quite a bundle, you know, even in big notes. Now; you say that if it had been there, Mr. Gunther would have overlooked it. What I say is that, not being there, it would be impossible to overlook.”

Da Silva struck himself on his forehead with his clenched fist. “You’re right, of course! I was too clever.”

Ari looked from one to the other. “But I don’t understand.”

“Quite simple,” Da Silva said, disgusted with himself. He reseated himself. “Wilson is saying that we have convinced them, at least for the time being, that the money left New York. But it wasn’t in your bag, and it wasn’t in your briefcase. And Gunther knows it wasn’t on your person. Had you been wearing a money belt, our customs friend may have thought he was helping you whisk it away under my nose, but since there was nothing under your jacket except you, they know that this isn’t the case.”

He shook his head. “They probably think your thing with the briefcase was a blind, and merely meant that you had an alternate and better way to get the money into the country. Mr. Wilson is saying, in his quiet but accurate manner, that if we really want to convince them that you have this two million dollars, we shall have to do more than show them where it isn’t.”

Ari came further into the room, worried. “But how?”

“I have no idea,” Da Silva said glumly, staring at his shoes, but no longer with the air of being their proud owner. There was a few moments’ silence. Then Da Silva sat up straight, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Or maybe I do. But it means night work. Overtime, without pay.”

The others watched him as he leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “How does this sound? Imagine you are listening to this on the Radio Nacional.” He let his voice drop to the unemotional tone of a newscaster. “Sometime last night,” he said gravely, “a mysterious figure was seen lugging a heavy bundle from the darkened hangars of Pan American Airways at Galeao Airport. Despite the best efforts of the customs and the airport police, who fired—no, make that, who shouted—at the thief, he effected his escape to a car in which an accomplice was waiting. As of this hour, the police have no clue as to the identity of the thief. Pan American officials who were called immediately to the scene of the daring robbery made a complete search of their premises, but state that nothing belonging to the company is missing. Police feel that possibly the thief was disturbed before he could open the company safe, but are unable to explain the bulky package he was seen to be carrying.” He looked at Wilson, his eyes twinkling. “How does it read, accomplice?”

“Now wait a minute, Zé! You are not going to pull me into this thing!”

“Listen to him,” Da Silva said in simulated disgust. “If it hadn’t been for him we would have all been home hours ago!”

“Now look, Zé. This is no affair of mine. Count me out.”

“I would suggest your car,” Da Silva said thoughtfully. “Mine has been giving me trouble lately. Something with the transmission, I think.”

“No car and no Wilson,” Wilson said shortly, getting to his feet. “I’m leaving right now for dinner.”

“An excellent idea,” Da Silva said agreeably. “We can discuss the details much better over some good food.” He opened the door and ushered the other two out. “I’ll show you another exit to the street,” he said to Ari, grasping the smaller man’s arm in friendship. “They may have followed you from the hotel, and your long delay here would get them wondering. Let them think they missed you.” He turned back to Wilson as they walked to the elevator. “Where would you like to eat?”

“I’m eating alone.”

“Practically alone. In fact, if you like, I’ll even do all the talking.” He winked at Ari, and in a sotto voce that carried clearly, added, “I told you he wouldn’t hinder us too much!”